Private A Remedial Ass-Kicking 101 [Class: Shinda, Goro, Hariken]

[Chikamatsu Kohana]

I pushed open the heavy door to one of the training rooms in the Throne of Bone, the bone structure cool under my palm. The space was empty—for now—just matted floors, weapon racks along the walls, and that particular smell of sweat and discipline that clung to every dojo I'd ever been in.

"Fucking fantastic," I muttered under my breath, stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind me with a heavy thud.

Apparently, somewhere along the line, someone had decided I was qualified to lead "additional combat training" for three students who needed it. Three boys, from what I'd been told. And "additional training" was just a polite way of saying they were so shit at combat that their regular instructors had given up and pawned them off on someone else.

That someone being me. Lucky fucking me.

But here I was anyway, because when the Toraono clan asks you to do something in their own goddamn dojo, you don't really get to say no. Not unless you want to deal with the political fallout, and I had enough problems without adding "pissed off one of Suna's founding clans" to the list.

I walked to the center of the room, rolling my shoulders and cracking my neck. The Sunagakure banner hung on the wall alongside the Toraono clan symbols, all that proud loyalty and tradition shit. It would've been inspiring if I gave a damn.

The files I'd been given were... not encouraging. Three boys who apparently couldn't fight their way out of a wet paper bag. Not detention, technically, but it might as well be. This was where they sent the problem cases, the ones who were falling behind, fucking up, or just plain incompetent.

"This is going to be a nightmare," I said flatly to the empty room.

I started stretching, working out the tension in my muscles while I waited. Rolling my wrists, loosening my shoulders, dropping into a few basic stances to warm up. If I was going to spend the next however-long beating combat sense into three useless students, I might as well be limber for it.

"Alright, Kohana," I muttered to myself, cracking my knuckles. "Don't kill them. Shin would be pissed. Probably."

I glanced at the door, then back at the training mats.

"Let's see what kind of disasters they're sending me."

 

[Kyouketsu Shinda]

Shinda had walked into the Academy, shoulders hunched and loose, eyes narrowed and annoyed. The open training hall smelled faintly of sweat and polished wood, a reminder that discipline reigned here. He muttered under his breath, dragging his feet toward the center mat where Kohana was nearby. Why am I even here?

With a sharp exhale, he peeled off his shirt, tossing it to the side with a flick of his wrist. His lean muscles flexed under the lights, torso completely covered in healed scarring. He didn’t bother masking his annoyance; the irritation radiated off him like heat from the desert.

Then, with a subtle but precise motion, he would use the abilities he had honed in secret. The ridges along his arm shifted slightly beneath his skin as the bone of his right arm visibly shifted. The underside of his palm would split open, flesh and blood clinging to the emerged bone as it jutted out. Grasping hold of the bone with his opposite hand, he would pull causing a wet, tearing sound. The bone emerged, sharp and rigid, the elbow joint forming a handle. It hovered in his grip as naturally as an extension of his own body, a blade covered in blood and bits of flesh.

Shinda flexed his fingers around the handle, testing the balance. The blade hummed faintly, a resonance of raw potential. He glanced toward the teacher, eyes blank and disinterested, though the faint twitch of a grin betrayed a spark of anticipation.

“Let’s get this over with,” he muttered, as his body had already rapidly regenerated the loss bone and closed the wound. A scar forming on his palm.

[WC: 276]
[Topic Entered]

 

[Goro]

Goro approached the Throne of Bone with the slow, rhythmic gait of someone who had already spent twelve hours hauling heavy ore. His six arms were tucked neatly beneath a loose, charcoal-colored poncho, hiding the fact that his middle limbs were still twitching with a residual, nervous energy from his earlier practice.

The weight of the "remedial" label sat heavy on his shoulders. He wasn't like the others; he wasn't a noble or a prodigy with a terrifying lineage. He was just a boy from the lower hives who was starting to realize that having six hands didn't mean anything if you didn't know where to put them.

He pushed the door open, the heavy thud of the bone-wood echoing through the room. He didn't look up immediately. His red eyes were fixed on the floor, lost in contemplation of the advice the Kazekage had given him earlier. Coordination must match ambition.

"Reporting." Goro said, his voice a low, raspy murmur that barely carried across the mats.

He stopped a few paces away from Kohana, finally lifting his gaze. He saw the scars on Shinda's chest and the bloody, wet blade the Kaguya had just birthed from his own palm. Goro didn't flinch. After the things he’d seen in the deep mines and the visceral nature of Shinda's previous spar, he was becoming strangely desensitized to the sight of bone and blood.

Goro reached up and pulled back his hood, revealing his messy silver hair and the dark circles under his eyes. He looked tired, but there was a quiet, stubborn focus in his expression. He didn't offer a boast or a complaint. He simply stepped onto the mat and let his four extra arms slowly unfurl from beneath his poncho, spreading out like a dark, multi-limbed fan.

"Goro, of the Tsuchigumo..." he added, adjusting the bronze greaves on his legs. "Ready to work."

He stood there, a quiet contrast to Shinda's irritation and Kohana's sharp intensity, waiting to be told how he was going to be broken and rebuilt.

[WC: 340]
[Topic Entered]

 

[Kōsa Harikēn]

Practice doesn't lead earn perfection, perfection is built over time and trial. These were the final words that the Kazekage spoke that sunk into him in the class. Perfection in his mind was an unobtainable fallacy; only those with blind ambition believe there to be the level of perfection. Though his pursuit of knowledge would lead him down a chaotic road, bound by twilight and chaos, spiraling into a double helix of uncertainty.

The sting of the term Remedial bore into his head; being that of one of the Lesser Clans, and being thrown into a 'remedial class' ran by one from a Noble Clan felt like an attempt at a sleight, a mark against his people. The Kyouketsu, Tsuschigumo, and the Uzumoreru... Standing side-by-side in the face of "Nobility". Was this really a class, or just an excuse to beat up those that she felt she was better than.

Whatever the case was, Hariken found himself in the Toraono Dojo once again; the sound of repairs echoed of past events that transpired. The air lingered with almost a scorching feel.

Uzumoreru Hariken. Answering the summons. His voice was neither interested or distant; he felt like him being here was pointless, though maybe this was punishment for his pursuit for knowledge and strength... I didn't expect you to be a petty on Kazekage-san He would let a sigh escape his mouth.

The six-armed Tsuchigumo Goro; The calcified vanguard Kyouketsu Shinda; The unforeseen blade Uzumoreru Hariken. Let's get this started then.

[Topic Entered]

 

[Chikamatsu Kohana]

because she will be on sight with you 3, I am [Calling BMod] before RPing my next post. The room is well lit and open space.

 

[Akira Yogan]

Hello!

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